Ananya S Guha writes

Roadside Dreams

There is the arena of hope 

a bit of mist, shrouded 

into unbecoming land 

and it pours, the rains 

on these hill tops and caves 

brush against  my body,

the starched shirt, with the 

ominous smell of  'something 

goes on'

something is going on everyday 

with the moon wearing whiskers 

and the sun nestling on hill slopes 

and in the midst, the arena of hope 

dreams, dreaming, continues to over pour 

till a vast  tide of  the river enters a hill town 

and the floods besmirch the hills, the pines 

I light candles surrounded by promontories 

of  vision.

Flicker of argument.

A ray of light 

the last bus in town, now trundles 

alongside my roadside dreams. 

Old Man and the Moon -- Dianne Renee Shilling